Dark End of the Street
by choke
Summary: "If you don't get caught, you deserve everything you steal." Eames/OFC, oc-centric.
1. Disappearance of the Girl

_Inception_ is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

_**As of 03/09/13**_: Totally not dead, dudes! I just went through like 3 laptops between the last update and now which accounts for inactivity (and I'm a grad student…) but this story hasn't been forgotten. All the chapters are being edited and there'll be an update soon(ish).

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**Dark End of the Street**

**Fence**: _Noun_ (Criminal)—A person who receives, finds and/or sells stolen goods; the 'middle man' between thieves and their buyers.

**Shill**: _Noun_ (Criminal)—A person who poses as the decoy to trick others into participating; an individual planted into a crowd to set up the mark.

**...**

Amelia Fox sat in her rusted green Bronco, gazing aimlessly out its window as her hands kept busying subconsciously cracking her knuckles. It had begun to rain twenty minutes after her arrival and hadn't let up since; she watched it slam into the asphalt of the highway like hammers, listening to the distant roll of the thunder that rattled her truck's frame. She had been waiting for her employer for over an hour and a half now, just sitting in her truck watching the storm rage outside beyond her windows, with each passing minute her patience decreased and her nerves rose.

_This isn't a good sign._

While she hadn't met her employer, Mister Green, face-to-face before, there were set rules for when she met his mouth pieces, the most important of which was promptness. In all of the less than legal transactions in the past, they had never once been late, and the lack of being so now…was unsettling. It made every bone in her body scream that something was off, call it a fence's intuition but it set her on edge, incredibly so. Her mobile hadn't rang, there were no new messages or missed calls. Amelia was inclined to count it as a good thing, but that didn't stop the nervousness fluttering around in her stomach or her eyes from flirting between watching the rain and the passenger seat.

Or more specifically, what was cradled within it.

The music box was beautiful, and it had been her obsession for the last three years. There had been nothing else but the Amber Room music box as far as Amelia and her employer were concerned. It had been crafted in such a way that only could have been done by someone trained in the craft of the Old World. Covered with amber and gold leafing, it glowed with even the barest of light within the Bronco; the painstaking details that had been applied to it were breathtaking, hypnotizing even. It was fragile though, making it even more stunning, the amber brittle, the checkered pattern cracking and the leafing weakened from its travel throughout the years but for Amelia it was her unicorn. It was the score and sell that would make her name known: The finder of the Amber music box.

Her eyes flicked away from the glided box, returning to stare out the window, her fingers tapping nervously on the Bronco's wheel, creating a frantic rhythm that mimicked her pounding heart. If it had been any other deal, she reasoned with herself, she would have left. She would have put her keys into the ignition and driven off from sheer impatience, however, this was not any other deal. This wasn't some stolen piece of Impressionist artwork, or blood diamonds, this was in category of worth and danger all its own.

As the rain began to wane, becoming less like hammers and more like giant globs of water falling rarely, headlights flared through the front window, blinding her. Her employer had arrived. She watched the car – a black Mercedes – come a stop before her, its light flickering twice. The action caused her to snicker, remembering a scene from a film, but Amelia pushed her amusement aside, this was work and there was no room for distractions. With a sigh she pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt before zipping up her worn leather bomber and opened the truck door, the Amber box wrapped and tucked gently under her arm, stepping out into the dying rain. Her booted feet sunk into the mud and muck as she gingerly made her way to the pavement from the side of the road, stopping a few feet away from the Mercedes, unsure of what to do.

Fortunately, Amelia was saved from making any rash decision when the passenger side door opened and the mouth piece emerged.

"Fox," he stated. _Well, that's about as close to a hello as I'm going to get from this bloke, _she thought. He'd never had been overly friendly with their introductions or conversations; any mouth piece was all business, all the time. "Do you have the box?"

"Grant," Amelia mumbled, slightly insulted. She hadn't spent three years looking for the box for nothing. "Is the transfer to my account ready?"

"My employer has authorized me to make the transfer." He reached into his inner breast pocket, pulling out his mobile for her to see before slipping it back. "Your account will be accredited with the money once I have confirmation of the box."

"That's fair." She squatted down quickly, balancing on the balls of her feet as she gingerly placed the wrapped box on the ground. Even though it stopped raining, she still didn't want to risk the craftsmanship. Slowly she unzipped the top of the square duffel, pulled back the fabric laid upon it to expose the top of the music box. Amelia pulled her eyes away from the sculpted gold figurine on the top to watch the man's eyes flicker away from the box to her face, and then back. "So, is this good enough for you?"

He flashed a quick humorless smile, "Of course."

And that's when everything went to shit.

The first bullet ripped her left shoulder, tearing the muscle and ripping through bone as if it were tissue paper. It all happened so quickly, that Amelia hadn't even had time to do anything but fall sideways clutching the wound in pain. Her breathing was swallow as she blinked back the tears that began to cloud her vision, the sound of the mouth piece walking closer to her filled her ears but was barely heard over the beating of her heart.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Amelia managed to get out between her clenched teeth. Unable to do anything other than wither in pain and watch the mouth piece slink closer to her, she wasn't even able to reach for her own weapon.

"Just following my orders, Fox, it's not anything personal, though you are a bit of a bitch." Grant said candidly and very matter-of-fact sort of way as he picked up the duffel, only to hand it off to someone behind him that she couldn't see. "My employer just doesn't see the reason he should pay the 10.4 you're asking when we can just take it."

Then with his foot he kicked Amelia on her back to step on her shoulder, purposely placing pressure on bullet wound with his foot, causing her give a shrill cry. The cocking the gun, Grant aimed straight at her chest, barring his teeth in something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so hollow.

"Don't take it personally, it's all about economics."

And he pulled the trigger.

**...**

Amelia flung herself from her bed, falling with a thud onto the floor, her heart threatening to burst from her chest as sweat gathered on her forehead. In the darkness of the loft, the primal terror still surged fresh through her body, her left shoulder pulsing with its dull, age old pain of the once very real wound. Her right hand found itself grasping her necklace that lay limp on her chest, her fingers desperately feeling for the distinct texture of the bronze.

_You're awake. You're awake. You're awake._

She sat like that—awkwardly sprawled on the metal grate flooring, back against the bedside-for what seemed like hours, the mantra running through her head until she could pull herself up, taking the tangle of sheets with her. Wrapped in them like a queen, Amelia shakily made her way over to her sink turning on the faucet she splashed her face and the back of her neck. Taking a deep breath before her hands gripped the porcelain edge, holding so tight Amelia's knuckles were turning white. She ignored her own haggard reflection in mirror while she attempted to collect herself, counting down slowly from fifty to nil, waiting for the phantom pain to disappear completely and control her breathing, which was still shallow and shaky at beast.

It took a few minutes for her to even out her breathing, to stop the panic flutter in her chest, but eventually she calmed herself. And while a stray tremor still wracked her frame Amelia released the sink, and still wrapped in the sheet, made her way down the stairs, heading to the small kitchenette. Just about on the bottom step, her feet caught on the fabric of the bed sheet, causing her to hastily grab out for the shaky hand railing to stop from busting her face.

_Well_, Amelia thought letting the sheet drop, _should have seen that coming._

Hoping off the stairs she stalked towards the small area that was somehow considered a kitchen to yank open her liquor cabinet—which, if she thought about, was the name she gave all her cabinets—and grabbed the first bottle she saw. _Whisky_. Grabbing a questionably clean glass from the rust colored kitchen sink, she poured herself a more than generous amount then downed it without hesitation. The drink's typical, if not anticipated, burn was barely felt as Amelia began pouring herself a second glass, then downed that one just as quick, feeling the bite.

It didn't stop her from pouring a third.

It wasn't that she was alcoholic, she wasn't. She knew that, but she also knew she wasn't meant to dream, not anymore. As a result of some of the more…specialized work she got involved with before her forced retirement, she hadn't dreamt in months. It wasn't natural. But, here she was, for the fifth day in a row woken from a nightmare, grasping her poor excuse for a totem like a child did their blanket, and finding herself grateful for buying an industrial space instead of an apartment loft.

Dropping her empty glass down on the counter top, she furrowed her brow. She never did like people that much anyway.

It was then, when the silence of the loft was broken by an aggravating noise, the high pitched ringing that was uncomfortably grating on her ears. As a result, Amelia all but knocked by the glass off, fumbling along the cool surface of the counter top until she found the offending object: her mobile

"Hello?" She answered her voice husky and a bit scratchy.

"Fox, don't hang up."

The voice was British and male, though it was the first detail that had her finger hovering over the _end call_ button within seconds. There was a short list of male British contacts that she had, and all of them she had left behind when she changed lives. She had gone through extremes to make damn sure nobody could find her without sending up red flags.

"How did you get this number?" She demanded, feeling nauseous.

"You didn't think you could your tracks that well, did you sweet heart?" When Amelia didn't reply, the voice gave a laugh. "You did! Don't worry, it's cute. Naïve, but cute."

Well, if she had any doubts of who it was on the phone with her, they were all erased when she heard _that_ particular laugh. That sound alone made her eyes narrow.

"Eames."

"Fox," He mocked, before growing somber. "I have a…proposition for you."

"Not interested. I'm dead, remember?" She snapped, slumping down onto her only kitchen stool. "What makes you think I'd care about anything you've got?"

"It's from Cobb."

At the sound of that name, Amelia sat a bit straighter, a bit taller. As much as it would pain her to admit, her interest was officially peaked. She could just as much as see his shit-eating grin as hear it over the phone in his tone. She'd been hooked. "…What sort of job?"

"It's something better discussed face-to-face," He explained airily. "So why don't be a doll and open up your front door so we can speak of the particulars, love."

"Bullshit."

The phrase was out of Amelia's mouth before she even knew it, causing her to wince at that harshness and, on some level, to wish fruitlessly she could take it back. Her curse meant a lot more than just calling him a liar. She _knew_ it wasn't possible for him to be outside her very door, there was no possible way he, or anyone else for that matter, could have discovered her current hide away. She didn't need take his bait. She found it difficult to believe.

"You know I wouldn't, not about this." Eames made it all too easy for her to picture him running a hand through his hair, near pacing. "So, why don't you let me before I'm forced let myself in?"

"Fine," She relented, sliding off her stool to finally open a set of blinds to brighten the room. _It'll take 30 minutes to pack, 10 minutes for travel…_"You get ten minutes. That's all I can give."

Amelia didn't even wait for a response; hitting _end call_ as soon as the words had left her mouth she gave herself no time to change her mind. There were, of course, reasons why giving Eames even ten minutes was a terrible, horrible idea, and all of them seemed to be shouting at her as she grabbed an abandoned sweatshirt to pull on. She stopped before the rusted steel door with her hand on the handle to try and collect herself.

_When it rains, _she fumed silently,_ it fuckin' pours._

With that thought, Amelia grabbed the key from the counter top and yanked the door open, stepping outside into the crisp air, slamming the door shut behind her. He'd have heard that if he was outside the gate.

It was well into the afternoon; with retirement and quitting the job, came the lack of a normal sleeping routine. It didn't bother her that much anyway, or she supposed. Amelia's eyes watered though, the sun was high in the sky, while bright, but didn't do much to dampen the seasonal chill that had the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Ignoring it, she made her way down the rusty stairwell quickly, skipping the last few steps out of habit, reaching the double padlocked gate that secured the only entrance to the loft.

Taking a bit of a deep breath, she unlocked the gate, grabbed the handle and gave it a firm yank. There was a few seconds of silence as the gate swung open, revealing a man dressed in a nicely cut black suit and shirt.

_Eames._

"'Ello 'Lia."


	2. When We Were Young

_Inception_ is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

**Edited, 03/09/13**

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_So we meet again my heartache  
So we meet again my friend  
I should've known that you'd return  
The moment I was on the mend_

_So we meet again my heartache_  
_Like two lovers torn apart_  
_Bound together by the breaking_  
_Of a tired and torrid heart_

**...**

**Dark End of the Street**

Sixteen months.

It seemed like ages really, but it had just been over a year and a half since she had last seen him, not that he looked too different, but just enough for her to notice. Though to be fair, Amelia was sure she looked nothing like she had the last time he saw her as well. He was thicker, a bit more muscular than she remembered, with longer hair and a stylish five o'clock shadow. He was the perfect image of a gentlemen thief though, wearing a sharply tailored two piece suit and what she could assume were overpriced Italian leather shoes. In comparison to him, she had done nothing but physical deteriorate since their last encounter, wasting away under the stress.

_This would be easier if he'd gotten ugly._

Resign to what was to come, Amelia poured another generous glass of whisky, sipping the burning drink slowly, watching her guest over the top of the glass as he took in her living space. Just watching him showed her how completely out of place he was, standing there in her dirty loft, cool and collected as he lazily looked around with his hands casually in his trouser pockets. She hadn't been anywhere near polite after he had greeted her—the shock was still a bit too much—and hadn't even invited him, just turned on her heel and stalked inside expecting fully for him to follow her.

And of course he did. Lovely.

"You've got a unique place here, a bit of a change from your previous tastes though." He smirked, turning on his heel to stare at her, "Didn't know rust and tetanus was your aesthetic."

If possible Amelia's frown deepened.

_When could you have learned about my aesthetic,_ she wanted to spit out, _we were always too busy fucking or stealing._

"It's my own version of _Little Bohemia_," she sneered before downing her drink. "You said this job has to do with Cobb, so what is it?"

"You know," He ignored her question to walk towards her, looking pointedly at the empty glass in her hand as he stopped before her. "It's rude not to offer a guest a drink."

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it?" She quipped, dropping her glass onto the counter. "Now, what job is so important you've visited the dead?"

"Inception," His tone giddy as he boxed her in with his arms on either side of her, hands flat on the counter top. "That's the job, darling. Bloody fucking inception."

_The room was barely lit, with only the low glow of the street lights sneaking through the cracks of the curtains to cast the bedroom in a golden hue. Everything was muddled in the twilight of the city night, making it nearly impossible to discern anything that wasn't within arm reach. The two forms on the bed were no exception to this either, their faces exaggerated by the shadows and dips of light as they laid in the dark._

"_What about giving an idea to someone?" She questioned tangled loosely in the black bed sheets. She lazily busied herself with tracing one of the several tattoos that covered his skin as she tried desperately to beat back the urge to put her mouth to his throat. "Has anyone ever tried that?"_

"_Mmm successfully? No," he murmured sleepily, seeming to lean into her touch like a cat while looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "It's nearly impossible to plant an idea. The human mind is clever, nobody's figured out how to trick it yet."_

"_Well maybe," she drawled into the skin his throat, her mouth sucking and teeth nipping, "you need a bit more imagination."_

"Inception isn't possible," she craned her neck up to look him in the eye, pushing herself into the counter hard enough to bruise skin. "Why would Cobb take a job he knows is impossible?"

"Because," Eames supplied slowly, "If he's successful, he gets his out."

An out. It seemed to be the only thing anyone ever wanted, but very few attainted. It was commonly understood that most individuals involved with criminal exploits usually didn't go into their line of work because they wanted to, but because they had to. Very few had it in their blood. Sure, there were always exceptions to the rules; Amelia's own mentor Neal had been a rather large exception to the rule, though she supposed that much of Neal's career had defined logic—especially when he went so far as to burn off his own fingerprints. From firsthand experience though, most who found themselves in the business, where by happenstance or force, desired an out.

_I just had to die to get out._

"He'd need more than an out," She commented offhandedly, trying to make it seem that she wasn't uncomfortable with his nearness. She could feel his body heat from how close he was, could barely think as she inhaled the smell that was so distinctly Eames; sandalwood and leather, the familiarity of it all made her gut twist. Even if she took the job, how would she concentrate? "I heard COBOL's out for blood."

"Oh, you heard about that as well?"

"I keep an ear to the ground for my own health," Amelia shrugged. "Who's the mark?"

"The heir of Fischer Morrow," seemingly disappointed with her lack of reaction he moved back a step. "It's a billion dollar 'Straya company, does something with energy. The employer wants it dissolved once the son inherits it."

"You'd have to use an emotional basis for that idea…" She mused as her shoulders drooped and her posture relaxed. Ten minutes had long since passed, but that all seemed forgotten. "If it works, that would be fantastic, but if it fails…I don't need to fall back onto the grid."

As if expecting that, Eames gave her a sly smirk she knew all too well.

"There's incentive for you," He moved away to pour himself a glass of whisky, his back to her. "One of the biggest stock holders of the company, besides the immediate board members, happens to be a man you know, a Mister Antonio Green."

Knowing he had Amelia hooked, Eames set on reeling her in. The dramatic route always worked best so he let the tension mount, wasted time taking a light sip of his liquor before turning back to her, swirling the drink in the glass.

"If the company were to be dissolved prior to board member knowledge, if the decision was sudden…well, an investor would lose it all. Especially one that is a fan of questionable stock trading policies that's left a rather noticeable paper trail."

At his words, Amelia found herself rubbing the scar on her shoulder through the fabric of her sweatshirt. The anger that she kept locked in a steel trap flared up in her chest, burning hotter than before thanks to the idea of revenge.

"You're sure?" She tried to keep her desperation under wraps but it still leaked through.

"I checked, twice." He downed a quarter of his drink. "Had Arthur check as well, and you know him, thorough as a bloke can get when it comes to you."

She nodded, trying to contain the need to fidget as Eames simply stood there gazing at her. It was something she had never really been able to handle, and being in such close proximity after such a long time made it even worse. Granted, the awkwardness that had initially been there—along with the anger—had suddenly become absent from the conversation, Amelia could feel it brewing beneath the surface. It seemed asinine that she would run in the direction of the pending disaster, but with the chance of vengeance being dangled so neatly before her…how could she turn away?

She was always so weak, and he knew it.

"Where's Cobb set up?"

"Paris," as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Where else?"

"Amelia Lustig is a French citizen," she flashed her white teeth at him, making the choice. "When do we leave?"

Eames looked very much like the cat that'd caught the canary.

"As soon as you change," He said looking at her state with a bit of distaste. "You wouldn't pass for being a first class passenger in what you're wearing now."

It was hard to him when he held all the cards, and even more so because she didn't hate him at all.


	3. Nightcall

_Inception_ is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

**Author's Note: **As of 03/18/13 this chapter has been totally rewritten because ahhhh plot holes and things

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**Dark End of the Street**

Leaving Eames to himself, Amelia began collection the few things she knew she would need, all of which fit conveniently into her worn leather satchel. It was one of the few positives about having safe houses sprinkled across everywhere, it allowed to quick and light travel. Though, despite how easy the packing may have been, finding something suitable for first class travel was an entirely other animal, something easier said than done. Opening the cheap trunk at the end of her mattress, Amelia began shifting through the endless pairs of worn t-shirts and jeans. It was a struggle to find anything that would make her look like the appropriate companion to the man who was making himself at home downstairs.

"Oi, we don't have all day you know!"

She bristled, stopping her search. "Thank you for that breaking news, I had no idea. Now, shut up!"

_I'm already regretting this._

She could hear him moving around downstairs grumbling, no doubt snooping his way through her liquor cabinets, a thought that was confirmed when she heard the tell tale sound of bottles and glasses; Most likely pouring a nice glass of her expensive bourbon for himself. Rolling her eyes, Amelia went back to her search which quickly had her finding that the only suitable clothes in her trunk she could wear was a brown pair of high-waisted trousers with belt, a man's white dress shirt (where had _that_ come from?), one of her few properly pretty lace bras, tweed vest and red pumps.

All pieces of a persona left over from a rather lucrative job.

_Oh, I remember you_. Amelia couldn't help but smile as she tossed the vest and shoes on the bed. _That was a good gig. Always love a job that deals with Van Gogh._

Despite the desire to have a walk down memory lane of heists, she knew it wasn't the time or the place, so instead she heaved herself off the floor and pushed her sweat pants off. Quickly she pulled on the trousers, which were must looser than she remember, and then the belt which she tightened securely. Her sweatshirt was the next thing to go, jerking it over her head with her sports bra following, both pieces joining the pile on the floor. Quickly she pulled on her bra and tugged on the dress shirt, only to struggle with the buttons.

It didn't take long then for her to feel his eyes on her back, causing her to squirm uncomfortably as she tried to ignored him and finish the buttons. The small, tiny, stubborn buttons that just didn't want to do what they were meant to. Biting back a growl by the time she had finally reached the last button on the shirt, Amelia had just enough of feeling like a piece of meat.

"If you could stop burning holes into my back," she called while flipping her hair over the shirt's collar. "I'd be real appreciative."

He gave a bark of a laugh that brought back memories better left forgotten. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, love."

_Ah, there's the smugness we've all been waiting for._

Instead of snapping back though, Amelia just tugged on her vest and slipping on her heels. Tugging the satchel onto her shoulder, she rolled up her sleeves quickly and started down the stairs to the main floor of the loft, where she was welcome with the back of Eames' head. He was slouched with a glass in hand in his oh-so-casual way on her poor excuse of a couch, flipping his chip between his fingers absentmindedly.

"_What is it?"_

_They were seated comfortable on the floor of her New York City penthouse's living room, in the same general area where they'd begun their excursion a few hours earlier, in front of the floor ceiling to windows with the fireplace going. Dressed in only his shirt, she found herself comfortable seated on Eames' lap with her back pressing against his bare chest. Neither were sure of the time, not that it mattered to either of them, but if the sun was any indication then it was around mid-afternoon. They'd been busy since noon, moving fluidly between sleep and sex. _

"_A totem," He answered nipping at her neck before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Anchors us, lets you know whether you're dreaming or awake."_

"_That's—" Her breath caught in her throat as teeth grazed her pulse point. "That's not the full answer, is it?"_

_He chuckled, the sensation vibrating from his chest through her body, and his breath warm on her neck. It took everything for her not to make a noise. "They're common items, sometimes specially made but always unassuming to everyone but their owner. They can't be touched by anyone else, otherwise it's tainted. It can't be used properly."_

"_So," she pulled away to look at him, rolling her backside into his pelvis causing him to groan and her to grin. "What's your totem then?"_

"_That's enough talking." His fingers, which had threaded themselves into her hair, yanked her forward, and crushed her lips against his own._

He looked so out of place in her rusty industrial loft, dressed in his nicely fitted suit and hand crafted Italian leather shoes. He was so different from how he'd looked the last time she'd seen him from a distance. He'd been thinner then, not gaunt and sickly as she knew she must have looked to him, but even then he'd still be attractive in his own roguish way.

_Still attractive now,_ that little voice reasoned. _But we're not going to get into that now. My nonexistence therapist can only handle so much_.

Taking a deep breath, Amelia steeled herself before waltzing over towards him and all but snatching the glass. Within seconds she had downed his drink, the harsh taste of the bourbon (how had she been so right on what he would choose?) burning its way down her throat. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard her come, the pumps she wore clearly warned him of her approach so he didn't bother to look shocked.

"Right, shall we?"

_Might as well get this over as quickly as possible._

**…**

Amelia woke slowly as the feeling of consciousness working its way into her brain, cutting through the sleepy fog that clouded her head. She didn't open her eyes immediately though, she kept them closed and stayed completely still for a few moments until she remembered exactly she was and shot upright, her eyes darting around the jet's cabin.

_Job. Airport. Jet._

"Took you long enough to wake up, sleeping beauty."

_Eames._

"Jesus, these chairs don't do anyone any favors," She whined while stretching in her seat, letting her bones crack and pop. "How long have I been out?"

"Long enough," Eames answered tossing a folder into her lap. "There's everything you'll need to get started, or everything Cobb thought you'd need. Arthur put in a bit extra though."

She shot him a glare before she began leafing through the pages quietly, skimming quickly while picking out tidbits here and there that she knew were important all the while aware of his gaze on the top of her head. Of course that attention shifted when she came upon the photograph of Robert Fischer.

"Well hello there," she examined the photograph closely before shooting him a look over the top of the photo. "He's quiet the looker, isn't he?"

Eames simply gave a huff, "If you're into cheekbones and puppy dog eyes."

Ignoring him, Amelia simply shit the folder and tossed it into the seat next to her. She'd look at it more intently later when she didn't have someone glaring a hole into her head.

"Well, gimme the run down then. Who's on the team?"

"Excluding myself and you?" She just shot him a look. "Cobb, Arthur of course, an upstart of an Architect, and my good chemically gifted friend Yusuf."

"Sounds like a good team."

"Anything's better than the crack teams you've work with."

Amelia didn't even bother to argue.

"Exactly why then are we heading to Sydney if the team is in Paris?"

"Like I said earlier—recon," Eames replied, looking from the window to Amelia. "The company that Junior is set to inherit, Fischer Morrow, is nearly a monopoly and the employer wants it broken up so his company can survive. We get Fischer to carve up his father's legacy and we keep the world spinning in the manner that capitalism is accustomed to."

"Sounds like a fun political mess," Amelia commented as she stretched.

Eames ignored her comment, continuing his explanation. "The right hand man of junior's father is Peter Browning; he's almost like the father that Fischer never had. If we're going to make this work we're going to need a strong emotional push, and I believe it will come in the form of Browning."

She just _hmmm_'d in understanding, going back to the file to find Browning's photo—one of him and Fischer together, photographed paparazzi style—only to look up as Eames continued.

"The employer of this job, Mister Saito, has arranged for you to be the temporary replacement for Fischer's assistant. While my eyes will be on Browning, yours will be on Fischer. You'll have access to his schedule, his emails, phone calls, everything."

"So basically," Amelia said while tucking a leg under her body, "You need me understand the inner emotional workings of a man, which means to compress a 3 month long op into what? 3 weeks or some equally ridiculous time line, that's what you're meaning to say?"

Eames stilled his chip. "What, can't you do it?"

"I never said I couldn't," she sneered. "It just will be difficult. Manipulating a person takes time, to really get to know the insides well enough to know which buttons to push...How long will we have?"

"Two weeks," he reinforced by showing two fingers. "Arthur's set us up in a place downtown. As soon as our two weeks are up and you've…weaseled your way into his electronic planner, we'll fly to Paris and continue our work from there."

"Sounds like a good enough plan."

"Cobb will be glad to hear it."

The finality of his tone seemed to put an end to their conversation, leaving Amelia to do nothing but look out the darkened window at nothing, her forehead pressed against the cool glass. Anytime they spoke their conversations had been too polite and too strained, and the ride to the airport, just thinking about it made her want to cringe but the check-in at the airport and security had been even worse. Just thinking about it made her flustered.

_She really couldn't believe she was going to do this. It still didn't seem like a good idea after everything but she did owe Cobb. She owed him quite a bit and she knew that, however as soon as they reached the airport it all seemed to not matter at all what she owed anyone. _

_As soon as Eames tipped the driver he was on his way, brushing past her with a practiced relaxed ease._

"_Come along then, can't have you standing there all day."_

_He didn't even sound like he was speaking to a person, but rather a dog and, like one, Amelia dutifully followed him. Inside the airport was bustling with people, different languages and accents cutting through the air causing an awkward mishmash of sounds. Even with the occasional mistake, the pair easily made their way to the security check point which was where Eames rounded on her as their turn came up._

"_You have your ID, your passport?" She nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, holding them up. "Give them to me and let me do the talking."_

Yes,_ Amelia decided as she gave him the documents,_ just like a dog.

"_What's your reason for travel…" The TSA employee droned while absentmindedly giving the passport and ID a look. "Mister Marshall?"_

_Eames gave a grin that was all teeth._

"_Had to pick out a ring at Tiffany's for my fiancé here," He threw his arm around Amelia's waist, drawing her flush against his while his hand trailed dangerous close to the curve of her ass. "She doesn't speak a lick of English, you see, so she's really got no idea why we this jaunt all the way across the Pond."_

_The TSA employee gave a chuckle, "Relationships are always better with a bit of a language barrier."_

"_Don't I know it," Eames quipped while giving her backside a quick squeeze. "Isn't that right, love?"_

_Amelia could barely contain herself. "Tu te comportes comme un faire l'imbécile."_

"_Well sir," even the employee seemed flustered as he hurriedly handed back their passports and IDs. "I hope you have a good trip back."_

"_Oh," Eames tucked everything neatly into his breast pocket, "You know I will, mate."_

Her face still burned.

_Fucking asshole._

Of course the rational part of her understand why he'd played that card—it's always better to be safe when doing international travel than not—but it still made her temper spike. Not because she didn't enjoy it, but rather because she had. It almost made her blanch. She could still feel the ghost-like sensation of his body pressed up against hers and his hand trailing her back.

She'd be lying if she didn't admit that it had been awhile since she'd last taken someone to bed.

"Why didn't you come back?" He sounded tentative, and she knocked her forehead slightly, jumping at the unexpected question. "I saw you in Kenya, you could have come back."

Her mouth went dry, her tongue suddenly feeling heavy and like sandpaper. She could feel the sweat gathering on the back of her neck and forehead in spite of the coolness of the cabin. Her heart had dropped into her stomach. She didn't want to talk about anything, least of all that. There was so much he didn't know, didn't understand.

"Wake me up when we land in Sydney."

The distance between the two of them grew even larger.


	4. Mistakes

_Inception_ is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

**Author's Note: **As of 03/18/13 this chapter has been totally rewritten. I've got so many regrets about mucking up the plot because updates would be faster if I didn't have to redo a bunch of chapters. The rating has also been upped since ff and the crazy rating trolls don't need a reason to throw me under the bus. I was gonna add a bit more onto this chapter, but eh it's already like 2500.

* * *

**Dark End of the Street**

_It isn't fair._

That was the only thought Amelia had as she glared at Eames from her seat. While she had been tossing and turning for the last two and a half hours unable to fall back to sleep, Eames went on sleeping like a baby. Eventually, she stopped trying and tried to concentrate reading the file Arthur had complied for her, but gave up on that as well. She couldn't concentrate but she was going to everything in her power to ignore the elephant in the room for as long as she could.

It was that goal that led her to the discovery of the fully stocked liquor cabinet and while the lock _should_ have deterred her, it didn't do much good. It just gave Amelia an incentive beyond the immediate relief of drowning herself in alcohol. To her delight, the bigger on the inside cabinet held a vast eclectic collection of high shelf schnapps, whiskey, and oddly enough, a large quantity of sake.

_Now that, _she made a face as she pushed the Japanese drink out of the way, _is some nasty shit._

Deciding on a bottle of peach schnapps, Amelia slouched herself down semi-comfortably in her window seat and started the process of forgetting. By the time the plane touched down in Sydney it was well past 3 AM and she was half way done though the bottle when Eames decided to wake.

"Good morning, Prince Charming!" She raised her bottle at him as his glassy eyes focused on her. "Did you know there's an entire cabinet of booze in this place?"

"Yes," He answered groggily. "Thought I suppose this means you've retained your lock pick skills, least you won't be completely useless."

_Don't take the bait._

For once, Amelia listened to the rational voice and decided on taking a swig from the bottle instead while the plane taxied and Eames busied himself by straightening out his appearance. She didn't bother, she'd taken the vest off hours ago and her styling of the dress shirt had fallen into disarray and buttons undone. She was pretty sure her shoes were somewhere.

As she watched him right his tie, Amelia could be honest in saying the better part of their…relationship had been spent in arguments, in the knock-out, drag out fights that in some cases ended in a bit of blood but mostly on the floor, or in the bed, or on the wall.

"_No," He countered with a clenched jaw, his hands wrapping tightly around her wrists. "I don't hurt the people to get what I'm hired to collect."_

"_Don't hurt people?" She laughed, though the sound was hollow as she ripped herself from his grip before shoving him into the wall. "You manipulate people in the most intimate of fuckin' manners to rob them of their secrets, ambitions and ideas—you violate them in ways I could never come close to doing. If you don't think that's harmful, and if that doesn't hurt people, then you're the best conman I've ever met."_

"_There's a difference. I don't use violence," seeing her look of disbelief he went on, "My team's never lost someone because of selfishness. Never killed anyone to get what information—"_

_Her fist connected with his jaw before he'd even finished the sentence; the beginning of the end._

She let the bitter taste of the schnapps' burn its way down her throat before she spoke; she never could stay silent for long anyway.

"_Least you won't be completely rusty_," She mocked in a horrible posh accent, capping the bottle. "If you're gonna insult me, at least do me the courtesy of being straight forward about it."

The way it came out sounded nothing like it had in her head. They were harsher than she meant, without the jesting undertone she thought they would have delivered with them. Thankfully though, she was saved from whatever biting remark Eames had on his tongue by the pilot, who stepped out of the cockpit confirming their arrival and, if sensing the tension, quickly popped open the door and all but ran down the steps.

Eames still didn't say a word, just stood and pulled on his suit jacket while Amelia fidgeted, her fingers twisting and tightening the cap of her Schnapps as he straightened out his cuffs. She'd much rather have him insulting her than subjecting her to the silent treatment.

"You know sometimes you just make me so tired," His voice quiet as he busied himself getting something out of his breast pocket—a folded piece of paper—which he tossed into the empty seat next to her. "I'm sure you can find your own way to the loft, and to your job. The address is in the file."

Her grip on the bottle tightened and she felt the flush of shame heating up her neck, and her eyes closed at the sound of receding footsteps.

"Oh," He paused at half way out the door. "Make sure you're sober."

She opened the bottle and drank.

**…**

The overhead lighting in the HR office wasn't helping with Amelia's pounding temple as she sat stock straight in her seat while the woman—Mrs. Fields, if she remembered correctly—waited for the printer to finish. She had arrived promptly at 8AM for her meeting despite it all, and managed to even be properly dressed—she deserved an award, really because nobody could understand how difficult it was to call someone to call someone who knew somebody with keys to a high end department store who owed a favor?—with her guise of Ella Sampson all set. Not only that, but despite all the securities put in place against industrial espionage, it had been too easy for Amelia to get in the necessary tools for the job in her small handbag. It'd been ridiculously easy.

The hangover, however, she couldn't shake.

She had already forgone sleeping, which seemed to take the edge off and put the pounding into the region of being just bearable. On top of that, Amelia had chosen to totally disregard the warning label and swallow nearly an entire bottle of Advil but hadn't seen the fruits of that act yet. She could feel the sweat collecting on the base of her neck—making her just want to scratch the hell out of her newly dyed hair, Miss Sampson was definitely a Burgundy—and between her shoulder blades making her blouse stick slightly. It probably wouldn't be so bad; she had chosen a black knee length pencil skirt and peach silk blouse for the breathability only to have that factor go out the window with the addition of her charcoal-colored tights.

_Fuckin' business attire,_ Amelia thought shifting uncomfortably. _I'm never drinking again._

"Now Miss Sampson," Mrs. Fields said rounding with papers in hand, "I just need you to sign these forms before you can be on your way. They're the standard works; non-disclosure, background authorization, non-compete and temp contract, all of which I'm sure you've handled before."

Amelia accepted the papers with a small smile, "Of course."

The non-disclosure and non-compete were a bit more thorough than Amelia would have suspected, though she didn't think Fischer Morrow would just let temps wander in and out without protecting themselves. A non-compete contract…that was a bit overkill in her opinion, though, so would be hiring an extractor to attempt to break up a company just so your own would have a better chance. She signed the papers with ease though, taking only a second for each line, before handing them back over to the slightly pump middle aged woman who put them into the matching manila folder with Amelia's alias.

"Now that the paperwork is finished," Mrs. Field stood, motioning for Amelia to follow. "We can be on our way to where you'll be working and discuss what is expected to you."

Barley containing the urge to roll her eyes, Amelia grabbed her handbag and began following behind while wobbling a bit in her pumps. She didn't walk right beside Mrs. Fields—no, no, no nobody needed to see her face up so closely—but rather a step or two behind, psychological giving a boost to the woman in charge by following the lead. Both women's heels _click-clacked_ on the title floor as they made their way towards the elevator, all the while dodging other employees who were running around with paperwork and messages. It took maybe five minutes top to reach the machine and another three before they entered it, with Mrs. Fields pressing the second highest button.

"Since you're only a temporary assistant your duties will be much more limited in their scope than usual," the woman explained as the elevator began moving. "You will be expected to do the typical things—keep track of Mister Fischer's calendar and schedule, set appointments, greet clients and business associates and basic office functions. You understand?"

"Completely," Amelia quickly nodded. "I've been a full time personal assistant before."

"I know," Mrs. Field commented while checking her phone's email. "I remember your resume. Your way will reflect the retraction of the work load; however, between me and you and depending on how you perform your job, it could turn into a permanent position."

"That sounds…exciting?"

Amelia's reply sounding more like a question than anything, but truthfully she was only half listening as she watched the floor number above the door rise. People in the real world were so cute.

"It is," The woman hadn't even caught Amelia's own tone of indifference but continued on. "You will of course be given your own company cell phone—temporary, and to be returned upon your departure from Fischer Morrow—and it is to be used for company business only. Is that clear?"

Amelia gave a tight smile. "Crystal."

Then the elevator chimed, its doors springing open and both women filed out into the elevator lobby, which was a bit more impressive than most Amelia had seen. Everything was open, or at least there was the illusion of openness with windows allowing ample natural light in. A nice change from what she had just experience while sitting in the HR department. Of course there wasn't that much time for her to gawk, because as soon as the pair had stepped out of the elevator, Mrs. Field was walking down the hall leaving Amelia to play catch up, her heels hitting the plush carpet without a sound, as they made their way through the maze of offices.

"Now, I can give you one piece of important advice while you're here." Mrs. Field all but whispered once Amelia caught up to keeping pace with her. Really, the whole dramatic effect of whisper when no one else was around was ridiculous. "If you want to survive, stay out of sights of Mister Browning. He's trouble."

Amelia gave her a look. "What do you mean?"

"He's just trouble," the older woman repeated "He enjoys making work harder for the assistants, and no offense honey, but you look about as sturdy as a shaky leaf on a windy day."

_Then Ella is exactly how she's supposed to be._

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, ma'am. Thank you. "

"Good, I like you dear. This is your office here," Mrs. Fields stopping outside a fogged glass door. "There will be your phone, along with the moleskin detailing your job from the last assistant inside, along with the key to the desk safe where you can place your bag and items. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed back in HR."

With that, the plump woman turned on her heel and was gone, leaving Amelia alone. Quickly she checked the watch on her wrist—_8:45AM_—before pushing the door open and entering her new office area. It was nice, clean and efficient with a small waiting area of (presumably) expensive chairs with a matching small table. To the left of that was another door, leading to what Amelia assumed was Fischer's office. In between everything, with a wall of books, was her new desk; it was large and entirely devoid of any clutter save for the Mac desktop and small moleskin notebook that Mrs. Fields had told her about.

Sliding into the desk's seat quietly, Amelia boot the computer and, upon finding the key for the desk safe in the top drawer, retrieved her new company cell phone, tossing the box onto the desk. She had a good 15 minutes before Fischer would arrive, if his schedule was anything to go by, which was just enough time to do what needed to be done.

Without looking away from the screen of the computer, she slid off her watch, pulling at the wrist band for only a moment before it snapped apart, turning itself into a small, hidden USB stick. Snapping the USB into the side of the desktop, there was a moment of silence before the screen shifted from its desktop into a plain black screen.

_What did Freddy say? _Amelia pondered as she typed in a string of commands from memory, _Oh yes, he could cause more damage from his laptop sitting in his bed than someone like me could do on my own._ As the computer's screen gave a double sequence of blinks—confirming her command—before returning to the desktop screen as if nothing had happened, she couldn't help but think his statement was true.

Removing her watch USB from the side of the screen, Amelia reconstructed her time piece then slid it back onto her left wrist. Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair, slouching down in her seat relaxing for a second before grabbing the moleskin from the desktop to begin reading.

_8:55AM._

Five minutes till show time.


	5. Inside (Wo)man

_Inception_ is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

So much inspo taken from the **Devil Wears Prada** and my own horrible experience as a PA slave.

It's been awhile, sorry! Not incredibly polished but I wanted to get it posted, ya know? So forgive the errors, they'll be corrected.

* * *

**Dark End of the Street**

So far, being the interim personal assistance to a glorified company face was anything but straining. If fact, it was more of an annoyance for Amelia. An annoyance that she had to keep up a façade of bumbling, fresh face red head; an annoyance that she had to deal with her backside being groped by business associates whom believe it was appropriate; it was annoyance that she wasn't even four hours in and she felt the driving desire to strangle everyman she had to strut past (because _Ella Sampson_ was a confident young woman who strutted in her Louboutins) with their silk ties; it was an annoyance that Amelia had yet to make it to lunch without feeling the desire to throttle someone. Instead she smiled, batter her eyelashes and gave a bit of a giggle while the other assistance in the room—Mandy? Sandy? Cindy? Something Amelia couldn't be bothered to remember—glared daggers into the side of her head.

In fact, Amelia was fairly certain that, if given the chance, the girl would stab her with a blunt envelope opener if their earlier interaction had been anything to go by.

"_So, you're the new girl."_

_The jerk Amelia's shoulders gave at the sudden acid tone was part act and part reality—she had been a bit caught off guard by the biting tone—as the rail thin blonde appeared before her and put her hands flat out on the desk, leaning forward, a snide look etched on her face. _

_Textbook dominance stance, predictable, easy enough to defuse…or rile up._

"_If you want to put it that way," Amelia replied snapping her moleskin shut. "Then sure. That's me, Ella."_

"_Not very impressive then," the snide look intensified. "I don't know how you got this position, but you should know a million other girls would have _killed _for it. My best friend was up for the position. She had it, so what makes you so special?"_

"_Well that'd be pretty drastic, they sound like they might be unstable, your best friend included." Yes, poking the bear was the way to go. _Always_. "And to answer your question, I like to think it's because of my shinning personality."_

_The blonde backed off the desk, arms crossed. "Doubtful." _

Defensive, _Amelia's mind answered, _that fight is gone.

"_Anyway, it shouldn't take you long to get the axe and my friend will slide into your place, so don't get comfortable. I'm Shannon, and I've been…tasked with informing you of how things run—"_

"_I thought the book was for that?"_

"_No," she said as if that fact had been obvious. "The book is a guideline, so don't interrupt me again."_

_Instead of taking the bait, Amelia grit her teeth, staying silent._

"_You are Robert's assistance, obviously. I am the assistant to Peter. Hopefully you'll only be temporary but understand this: working for Robert or Peter—it will set you up to work in any field, for anyone," Shannon explained in a very matter-of-fact tone. "So I hope you understand that when I say this is a very difficult and demanding job for which you are completely and utterly unprepared for that I do know what I'm talking about. And it is will be _my _head on the chopping block if you fuck this up."_

_And that's when the chain on the preverbal rabid dog snapped; the Ella Sampson cover cracked._

"_For fuck's sake, the job isn't a brain surgeon's position. It's not even on par with giving yourself stiches as an unlicensed medical personnel. Lighten up."_

Needlessly to say, Amelia knew from that moment that she and her co-worker were not destined to be best friends, or even frienemies. She was right though, the job was anything but brain surgery, maybe on close to cutting off a cast (she had done that once, and never again; the scar on her right forearm was the reminder). The details though—a bottle of Voss, absolutely frigid was to be kept at his desk in the 3 o'clock position; the only coasters to be used, and the only in the entire office, were the set of three made of Central American zebrawood. That didn't even touch the breakfast and lunch requirements that just continued to cement the fact that Richard Fischer Jr was a bit of a diva, or was at least used to being treated as such.

"Gentlemen, I believe we've finally reached a good agreement here."

_Oh thank god._

There was the sound of shuffling paper over the voice of Richard Morrow as the men around the table began gathering their belongings, and chatting amongst themselves. Sitting in her chair near the wall, behind Robert's chair of course, Amelia smoothly slid her pen behind her right ear before snapping her moleskin closed to hide her lack of note taking (but more importantly, her doodling). It was only when the majority was out the room, and Robert was making for the door that she spoke.

"Sir, your reservation for lunch at Dorsia have been confirmed," Amelia ignored the surprised look that crossed Robert's face. _Forgot I was here, this is not starting out well_. "And the car is already waiting downstairs on you."

"Good, good." Robert seemed to mutter, straightening his suit, brow furrowed. "Ellen, correct? You've replaced Lisa?"

"Ella, sir." Amelia corrected, her smile plastered on her face as they exited the room, her a step behind him. "Ella Sampson, and only temporarily until they find a permanent replacement."

"Well you're off to a good start then, do you—"

"Have your afternoon schedule? Of course," she answered as he boarded the elevator without giving her even a glance, expecting her to follow him like a lost puppy. Amelia didn't disappoint_._ "I've already synced it to both your and my own phone, as well as both computers. You have a meeting at 2:45 with a representative from British Petroleum and then a phone conference with the South American supplier at 4."

Robert just gave a light _hmmm_ in response while Amelia hit the button—parking garage floor level—and the doors shut, leaving them in silence. The ride down would take fewer than 5 minutes seeing as they were on the top floor.

"Scrap the South American conference," Robert said as they passed the third floor. "I'd like to spend that time in the Suite."

The way he spoke that phrase—_the Suite_—as if it were words made of spun glass made it clear to Amelia what he meant. His father. Clearly Robert Fischer Jr. was unaware that Ella Sampson knew what he meant when he used the phrase, but Amelia, she knew. That was her job, to know everything—even the things she shouldn't. That's how people like her, in her line of work survived. You know more than a little bit about everything, and you're much more dangerous than people suspect.

Amelia nodded, her fingers moving swiftly across the screen of her phone. "Of course, sir. "

_Ding_.

"Consider it done," she finished as the doors slide to the garage floor, the car and driver waiting patiently before them.

Robert nodded as he stepped off, moving towards the car waiting. "Good. I should be back—"

"By 1:30, no later. I know, sir."

_Laying it on too thick, pull back. Pull back. Smile. No, no, too much, a little less. Perfect._

He stopped, turning back a bit while his hand rested on the car roof and passenger door. There wasn't much of a facial expression happening but there was something there in the eyes. Those stupidly blue, puppy dog eyes that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared; but not quick enough for Amelia not to catch.

_Hook, line, and sinker._

"You're not Lisa," He stated bluntly. "But you're damn close."

And with those words Robert slipped into the back seat of the black Crown Victorian, the driver shutting the door swiftly before all but jogging around to the driver's side. Within seconds the car was pulling away from the curb and up to ground level, leaving Amelia alone in the garage.

She waited only a moment before pulling out her own personal phone and dialed the number she had memorized that morning. It rang twice before being answered, the words tumbling out of her mouth quickly.

"We need to meet, I have about an hour and a half. It concerns the job."

* * *

Of course the meeting place Eames had picked was a busy place for the white-collar working class. Usually it wouldn't have worked for their sort of…business, but at the moment meshed well with their façade of upper middle class bourgeois. The common guest of _Pure_ was dressed in a smart business suit or a sharp skirt and heels combo; there was a nonverbal dress code in the sea of black, navy and white as Amelia squeezed herself through the work lunch crowd. It had taken her twenty minutes in a cab to get from Fischer-Morrow to the restaurant, and another five no thanks to her phone's map app.

"Sorry," Amelia huffed out as she dropped into the seat across from Eames. "Got a bit turned around, you know."

Eames took a sip from his drink—_scotch on the rocks?_—shrugging. "Wasn't waiting long. What have you got?"

_Straight down to business, then? Ok._

"Here," Amelia pulled a phone from her bag, sliding it across the table. "You want to know Morrow, this will help. Any calls that man gets, you'll get records of. Corporate espionage aside, it'll allow you know the real man."

Eames put down his near empty glass in favor of the phone, and seeming satisfied with her work pocketed it. There was still that tension, the words spoken in anger and liquor still hanging in the air, but with work it was easier to ignore. Work was something both thieves knew well, like the back of their hands in the dark—or truthfully each other in the dark.

_Think about the job. Keep it professional._

"I've already copied both schedules to our phones so we'll know the perfect date for Cobb, so tell him not to worry as I'm sure he is."

"Don't—"

"Hi, what can I get you miss?"

Amelia's eyes broke off Eames to look at the waiter who had just appeared next to her like magic. As easy as pie, she slid back into Ella, a soft smile appearing on her lips as she leaned towards the man just enough.

"Well Brian," She answered after glancing at his nametag. "I'll have a double whisky sour if that's not too much trouble."

"No problem, is that all?"

"Yes, but make sure to get my friend," Amelia gave a wave to Eames, "here another scotch on the rocks, I'm sure he was drinking Vat 69, am I right?"

The waiter smiled, not even bothering to write the order down. "Yes ma'am, I'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Brian."

Taking the dismissal as Amelia turned away from the waiter and back to Eames, Brian disappeared towards the bar, leaving the duo at the table again alone and in silence. The awkwardness was back in full swing.

"Should you really be drinking on the job?"

The smile dropped right off her face; Amelia looked more like a mannequin than a person.

"If I remember correctly you always more of a liquid diet sort of man."

Eames shrugged, finger absentmindedly tracing the rim of his glass. "People change."

"No," She said. "They don't."

"You certainly did."

_Walked right into that one._

Any response she may have had was interrupted by the delivery of their drinks, her whisky sour not seeming anywhere near as appealing as it had moments before. She felt like a stone had dropped from her stomach onto the floor, empty and full at the same time. Devastated, that's what she was feeling at that second.

"I don't—" Amelia started, only to stop and try to gather her thoughts. She felt rusty. "I don't want any of this," she motioned between them, "to get in the way of this job. This is purely business. There's no need to dredge up the past, not now. There's nothing concerning us that is going to become connected to this job. I'm not going to jeopardize this."

The message was clear, and Amelia could only hope Eames would understand. They would both act as if their broken relationship had never happened.

"Okay."

"Okay?" She repeated incredulously.

He took a sip of his scotch.

"Yeah that's it," he answered only to pause and then elaborate. "Look, despite everything…I still trust your judgment when it comes to the job. I know you wouldn't knowing fuck it up, alright? Now, what do you have Puppy eyes?"

A warm feeling flared up in Amelia's chest at his words, and really, it took everything in her not to let the smile bloom across her face.

"Well, clearly he's trying to be his father even though he and everyone knows he's not."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You got that nugget from this morning alone?"

"I know, I know," Amelia smirked. "I'm good, but yeah. There's always this small hesitation he has when he's got to make a decision, which is all he did this morning. Well, make decisions and look towards Morrow to make sure they were the right decisions. He's trying to impress both men, you know? He's got all this self-loathing because he isn't his dad, and this depthless need to prove to Morrow that he can be his father."

"You sound sure."

"I am, I do—I did," She corrected hastily, "this for a living you know? People are a bit easier to read than trying to recreate them. It's like second nature, riding a bike."

At her words, Eames gave her a soft smile, one she hadn't seen in such a long time it made her heartache when it disappeared from his face, only to be replaced from nothing much at all. The façade of a Forger in place, truly unreadable.

"You always were good at your trade," He reached into his coat pocket suddenly before sliding a small business sized card across the table. "This is where we're staying. Arthur arranged it all. I haven't been there yet, but knowing him it's rather posh."

"Arthur isn't known for being a man of simple tastes," Amelia muttered as she picked up the card. It was heavy eggshell white card stock, raised print and a classic serif front face. Really, the man spared no expense on even the smallest of things. She always liked that about the Point Man.

By the time she looked up from the card, Eames was standing, draining his second glass of scotch and placing a rather thick wad of cash on the table.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to update Cobb and arrange a few more things for my own placement. That," he waved towards the cash, "should cover the drinks. I'll see you tonight, I suppose?"

"Yes?" She even sounded confused to her own ears.

"Good."

Then he was gone, slinking by her like it was nothing and leaving her at the table alone.

"_Really," She explained breathlessly as he pushed her up against the wall, her legs around his waist. The fabric of her dress was pushed up to her own. "I didn't know you two were working this job."_

"_Bullshit," He spoke as his mouth moved along her jaw, but to her ears his words sounded more like a growl than speech. "You knew, that's exactly why you showed up."_

"_Working a-ah, fuck—a separate job."_

_She knew his fingers would leave bruises on her thighs, they almost always did when he was in such a mood, not that she minded. But the closer they got to the edge of her garter belt and towards her inner thigh the cloudily her mind became._

"_I really don't care," He muttered as he bit along her collarbone leaving obvious red marks behind. "You're a distraction."_

_As if those words snapped her out of the daze his mouth and fingers had brought her into, Amelia was detangling herself from Eames, pushing him away and dropping her heeled feet back to the floor. She fixed her hair as nonchalantly as possible before moving onto her make-up; her lipstick would have to wait until she could get into the nearest powder room. Only then would she see the damage he had done._

_Amelia shot a smirk to Eames then, looking much like a predator as her hand sliding up his chest to pull at his bow tie lightly. _

"_Well, this is one distraction that will remove itself from your presence," her eyes flickered down before returning to his face. "And you might want to take care of that…problem." _

"_I'll see you later tonight," He ground out through his teeth, resisting the urge to grab her hips as she turned on her heel and began sashing away. "That's a promise."_


End file.
